


Dawnblade

by Anarchyinplasma



Series: Legends of Destiny [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: A young warlock learns to harness her light.
Series: Legends of Destiny [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1063367
Kudos: 1





	Dawnblade

**Author's Note:**

> Had this for *ages*, figured I'd throw it up.

“Do you understand, child?” The master queries, hand outstretched as she clutches a blade wreathed in golden flame. Gilt light cascades from her form in waves of fire, spilling onto the midday concrete like a brilliant waterfall of burning sparks. The student shakes her head.  
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just don’t understand, I reach for my light, but all I find is the void.” The older warlock sighs and dismisses her blade.

She wraps her arm around her apprentice’s shoulders and leads her across the courtyard, gesturing to a pair of hunters dueling with Arc staves.  
“You see them” she says, “they have a creed. Tell me what it is.” The apprentice squints.

She sees the staves crackle and spark as they clash, watches as the hunters flow like the electricity they command, dodging hits that should sweep either of them clean off their feet; before the older of the two lands a hit reinforced by a spin. The rumbling cannonade of thunder echoes across the court and the younger hunter goes flying, and the warlock understands.

“Flow like lightning, strike like thunder.”

“Exactly” her mentor praises, “now think, what is the creed of the Praxic Fire.”  
The young Warlock doesn’t have to think to answer.  
“The fire does not ask, the fire acts. That is the truth."  
Her mentor nods again. “Exactly, now apply that to your light. Do not ask for the void, act, for the fire.” Once again, the elder warlock reaches into the sky, wraps her hand around the burning midday sun, and takes its power for her own. Her robes are covered in a scintillating sea of flame, rippling like silk around her form.

The student tries, fails, and hunches her shoulders in defeat. Her master stifles a giggle at her student’s expression and consoles her in a sage-like manner.  
“This is to be expected. It will happen, in due time. Keep at it.”

So the student tries and tries, she tries as the sun crawls it’s way overhead, she tries as it sets, she tries through the night. She tries and she tries, but every time, all she feels is the soft crawl of her void in her veins and then, the dawn breaks on the horizon. Ribbons of undulating golden light spill around the cast aside shell of the Traveller, the gentle orbit of the fragments of rock and metal creating a glinting tapestry in the newborn sunlight, and the young warlock finally understands the act.

She reaches out into the glimmering sunrise, winking cold silver and warm gold in the new dawn, and takes one of the ribbons for her own.

Solar light flows down her veins like a lit river of accelerant, exploding with a rush into the winged sword in her hands. Blade wreathed in gilded fire. But this is not the only change, her auriferous wings flow behind her like liquified steel as her body is consumed in roaring flame like a cherufe of mythology, and she is possessed by fire.

So she takes to the sky, dancing in the dawnlight without her feet on the ground, in that moment, she can touch the heavens. Molten wings spread behind her in exultation as the radiance of the dawnlight caresses the curve of her face with it’s first new rays. The flame sears her flesh, scorching whimsical sigils into her bone, the boiling power burns through her like wildfire, indiscriminate, unyielding, but ultimately, it is fleeting. As her fire burns itself out, and she descends to the earth, the young warlock's mind is consumed by a passage from an ancient text.

“I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.”

She doesn’t realise she’s spoken aloud until she hears her teacher speak from the sidelines.  
“You understand the act then.” The young warlock nods once.  
“Yes master, I understand now.” The master smiles and summons her own blade from the blistering dawnlight.  
“Excellent, now you learn to fight with it.”


End file.
